Chapter 30: A Queen's Desperate Choice and a Promise Fulfilled
POV: Queen Rhaella Targaryen
The years in exile had been a slow, grinding torment. Since the fall of Dragonstone in 283 AC, I had known nothing but fear, poverty, and the constant, gnawing anxiety for my children. Viserys, growing more volatile with each passing year, clung to the tattered remnants of our name. And little Daenerys, born amidst the storm of our flight, knew only the precarious life of a fugitive. Ser Willem Darry, loyal until his last breath, had been our anchor, but even his strength was fading as we moved from one hidden hovel to another in the Free Cities. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat, every whispered word a potential betrayal. Robert Baratheon's reach felt impossibly long.
My despair had been a constant companion, heavier than any crown. But then, the news began to trickle across the Narrow Sea. Whispers, growing into shouts, of a great display of power in Westeros. Not by a king, but by something ancient, something beyond mortal comprehension. The tale told of King Robert Baratheon, the Usurper who had hunted my family to extinction, marching with his retinue to the borders of a mythical land called Leywin, filled with arrogance and demands. And how he had been met, not with swords, but with a laughter that chilled the very air, and with a power so absolute that it made a King's demands seem like a child's plea. He had been sent away, humiliated, defeated without a single blow struck, utterly powerless before the Immortal Lord of Leywin.
That story. That was the spark. That was the first true hope I had felt in six long years. If such a power existed, one that could so utterly humble Robert, then perhaps… perhaps it could offer us sanctuary. Leywin. The whispered name became a beacon, a desperate, final destination. Ser Willem was weak, but his eyes lit with the same desperate hope. We gathered our few paltry belongings, and with a prayer to gods I barely remembered, we set sail, not for a kingdom, but for a legend.
Our journey was arduous, filled with the usual terrors of the sea, but my spirit was buoyed by a singular purpose. We finally reached the western coast of Westeros, near the Riverlands, where the very air seemed to shift, growing still and profoundly peaceful. The Grand Castle of Leywin, a marvel of ancient architecture, rose from the earth itself. As I stumbled forward, clutching Daenerys, while Viserys clung to a frail Ser Willem, a figure appeared before us. An aura of ancient power emanated from him, calming my raw nerves, replacing fear with an overwhelming sense of peace. His eyes, golden and slit like a cat's, held depths that spoke of forgotten ages.
"Queen Rhaella Targaryen," his voice resonated, a sound like deep earth and quiet thunder. "You are safe. Your sanctuary is here."
I collapsed to my knees, tears of relief streaming down my face. "My Lord," I choked out, my voice ragged. "We have come seeking your protection. We have nowhere else to go."
"I know," he affirmed, his gaze encompassing my long suffering. "The ancient pact stands. All who seek protection from the blood of the Dragon, or the blood of the First Men, within these lands, shall find it."
He led us into the castle, where a kind woman, Ceara, welcomed us with warmth, guiding us to chambers that felt like paradise after years of squalor. Viserys, initially sullen, gazed around the ancient castle with a mix of wonder and possessiveness, but Daenerys, simply looked up at the Immortal Lord with calm, violet eyes, as if sensing the ancient truth within his gaze. Our long, desperate exile was finally over.
POV: Arthur Leywin
The affairs of mortals, their fleeting reigns and their fervent hatreds, were often predictable. Robert Baratheon's volatile kingship, for all its boisterousness, had been a tapestry woven with threads of incompetence and simmering resentment. His humiliation at my hands had served its purpose: it had secured the immediate safety of Elia Martell and her children, and it had provided the catalyst for Queen Rhaella to finally seek my sanctuary, bringing the last living direct heirs of Aegon the Conqueror under my inviolable protection.
Seven years had passed since the dramatic conclusion of Robert's Rebellion and my first direct encounter with Eddard Stark. That meeting had been borne of necessity, shortly after he had left the Tower of Joy, a man burdened by grief and a terrible secret, clutching the infant. I had appeared to him on a desolate road, sensing the profound weight of his new burden.
Memory fragment, 283 AC:
Eddard, haggard and worn, had tensed, his hand instinctively going to his sword, but his wary eyes had widened as they met mine. He had heard the legends, of course, the whispers of the Immortal Lord. "You are… the Lord of Leywin," he had breathed, his voice raw with disbelief and exhaustion.
"I am," I had confirmed, my voice resonating with ancient power. My golden, cat-like slit eyes had fixed on the bundle in his arms, piercing through the swaddling clothes to the fragile life within.
"Lord Stark," I continued, my gaze fixed on him. "There is another. A child of the dragon, yet also of the North. A secret kept in the shadow of war." I paused, letting the weight of my words settle, seeing the recognition dawn in his weary eyes as he looked at the child he held. "You will know him when the time comes. When this child reaches seven years of age, I will come for him. He, too, will require protection. He will have a great destiny, tied to a darkness that eclipses all mortal conflicts."
Ned's jaw had tightened, his eyes showing a profound shock that soon settled into grim resolve. He looked from the infant to me, weighing the impossible secret and the undeniable power before him. "My wife, Catelyn... she will never accept him. She will believe him a stain on my honor."
"That, Lord Stark, is a small price for the realm's future," I had told him, discerning the painful truth of his marriage. "Her resentment, though misplaced, is a natural consequence of her devotion. It is a necessary sacrifice. Until then, he must be Jon Snow, your bastard son."
He had nodded, a solemn acceptance in his eyes. "I understand. He will be my son. My secret. Until you come." He held the infant closer. "I swear it."
End memory fragment.
Now, in the late autumn of 290 AC, the seven years had passed. Jon Snow, the child of prophecy, was seven years of age. Eddard Stark had kept his oath, raising Jon with honor in the cold, proud halls of Winterfell. I could sense the boy's latent power, the unique blend of ancient bloodlines stirring within him, waiting to be awakened. It was time.
I appeared in the courtyard of Winterfell, not with fanfare, but with a silent ripple in the calm, a disruption that only the truly aware could perceive. Jon was there, a small figure diligently practicing with a wooden sword, his face intent. The few guards present stiffened, their breath catching, their eyes wide with disbelief as they beheld my Asuran form.
Ned Stark emerged from the keep, his face grim, but his eyes met mine with a solemn, knowing gaze. There was no surprise; he had known this day would come.
"Lord Leywin," Ned said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. "You have come. The day I have both dreaded, and yet… expected, has arrived." He gestured towards Jon with a heavy sigh. "He is ready, as ready as a boy of seven can be."
At that precise moment, Lady Catelyn, drawn by the unusual stillness and the sudden, hushed reverence of the guards, stepped into the courtyard. Her eyes, filled with a familiar resentment towards Jon, immediately fixed on him, then on my unfamiliar, ancient form. Her face hardened, her protective instincts for her trueborn children flaring fiercely.
"What is the meaning of this, Ned?" Catelyn demanded, her voice sharp with suspicion and anger. "Who is this man? And what does he want with... with my husband's bastard?" Her words were laced with a raw, familiar pain, years of resentment surfacing.
"He is not your son, Lady Catelyn," I stated calmly, my voice resonating with an authority that brooked no argument, though it was devoid of malice. My golden, cat-like slit eyes rested briefly on her, conveying an ancient, unwavering power that caused her to instinctively falter, her anger momentarily stifled by an inexplicable, unnerving awe. "And the time for his true path has come."
Ned stepped forward, placing a hand on Catelyn's arm, his gaze fixed on her, pleading for understanding she might not be able to give. "This is Lord Leywin, Catelyn," he said, his voice hushed, strained. "He is the Immortal Lord of the Gods Eye. He spoke to me seven years ago, after the rebellion. He promised to come for Jon. Now... he has."
Catelyn's face twisted in a mixture of confusion, outrage, and deep sorrow. "Seven years ago? You swore an oath to him? To give away your own son? Your bastard?" Her voice rose, raw with years of pent-up hurt, tears welling in her eyes. "He is a stain on our house, Ned, but he is still a child! You can't!" She moved as if to block my path, to shield Jon, but my unwavering presence, subtle yet undeniable, seemed to press upon her, making her steps falter, her spirit recoil. The unspoken words in her eyes were clear: Take him! Just take him! But don't make me witness this! Yet, her motherly instincts, however misdirected, still fought.
I turned my full attention to Jon, who, though seven, stood bravely, observing the strange man and the tension between the adults, his young mind trying to process the raw emotions. "Jon Snow," I said, my voice gentle, yet holding a profound depth that seemed to reach into his very core. "Your father, Lord Eddard, has done well to protect you. But your blood calls to a greater destiny, one that requires guidance beyond these walls. Your journey begins now."
Jon looked from Ned's sorrowful, conflicted face to my ancient, calm demeanor, then back to Catelyn's distraught expression. He was a child, but he sensed the immense significance of the moment, a turning point that would alter the course of his young life forever.
Ned knelt, pulling Jon into a fierce, final embrace. His face was buried in Jon's dark hair, his voice thick with unspoken emotion. "Be brave, Jon," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Always remember your honor. Learn well. And know that you are loved, truly loved. Go with him."
With a final, heartfelt hug, Ned released him. Jon, a small figure in a great world, walked towards me, his hand finding mine. My touch was warm, comforting, yet firm. I felt the faint spark of Targaryen aether, mingled with the earthy power of the First Men, already humming within him.
"No! My son! He's my son!" Catelyn's cry was a desolate wail, a desperate, broken protest that echoed through the courtyard. She reached out, as if to snatch him back, but my presence held her at bay, a silent, invisible wall.
Without another word, I turned, and with Jon Snow by my side, I began to fade, disappearing from the Winterfell courtyard as subtly as the morning mist. Jon, with a quick glance back at the distraught faces of Eddard and Catelyn, stepped into a new life, leaving behind the known world of Winterfell for a destiny only the Immortal Lord could guide him towards. The promise was fulfilled. The true training of the Prince That Was Promised had begun.